


John Watson is made of Jam and Kittens and Rage

by Earlgray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, pretty much pwp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlgray/pseuds/Earlgray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes wants John Watson. It consumes most of his waking hours, which is highly inconvenient. So Sherlock sets about to seduce him, and John isn't all that unwilling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jam

Why did he buy that bloody jam?

Sherlock sat, to all appearances, intently reading the newspaper, resting his elbows on the kitchen table as he leaned forward in his seat, scanning the pages with quick eyes. He could be, to anyone observing him, looking for new cases, or trying to find strange incidents that could be linked back to Moriarty, or even reading any new government changes, to see if Mycroft’s puppetry skills were present.

He was, in actual fact, taking extremely subtle glance down the table, to where john was sat eating jam. With a spoon. And he was making small sounds of contentment. It was positively sinful.

“John”

His eyes fluttered closed as the spoon was slowly drawn from his mouth, his lips making a pink rose bud around the tip.

“John!” Sherlock repeated, traces of steel lining his words

John let out a sigh and opened his eyes, twirling the spoon idly between his fingers.

“Will you be quiet, your incessant noise is juvenile, and I’m trying to concentrate”

John rolled his eyes, but he at least had the decency to blush.

“Sorry” he mumbled, mouth once again around the spoon.

Sherlock tried, he really did, not to look over at John, but with that damned spoon in his mouth, his soft looking, rather full lips pursed around the silver object, a small suckling noise escaping……

He mentally shook himself, showing no outward sign of his inner thoughts. Though if one looked close enough, they may have noticed a dilating of his pupils, with something that looked suspiciously akin to desire.

* * *

Sherlock was so immersed in his own thoughts, brilliant thoughts, whilst actively trying not to think of John, that when he surfaced, he realised that he was still holding the newspaper, there was a rapidly cooling cup of tea in front of him and John was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock went to his mind palace.

Cooling cup, handle perpendicular to the edge of the table. Pointed towards the counter. Look around. No spoon, or jam, but a slight scattering of fingerprints on the table edge. In uniform, showing the grip of a hand on its surface. Chair pushed back, no scraped back, scrape marks on the floor, in a sweeping arch away from the doorway. Door, ajar, another set of slight fingerprints above the handle filling grooves already made by Johns consistent hold. John, who had been in his pyjamas, with messy hair, sleep marks across his face made by rumpled sheets. Implying that it is morning, or was. Slight smell in the air, of jam, cigarettes and warm sleep. Another sniff. Registered the jam and cigarettes as consistent, normal, but the sleep smell was faint. He sniffed his shoulder. Not him. Not that long since John left then.

Sleepy John, Jam, tea, morning. John must be in the shower.

And through the few seconds it took him to deduce where John could be, that is the only thought that stops him, brings him to an utter halt.

John.

Is.

 In.

The.

Shower.

Sherlock knew he was a very logical structured person, he had a brilliant mind, and was far superior to the common man, but why was it that John Watson was the one person that could tear all that apart. One thought of John in the shower, droplets of water rolling down his smooth chest and over his stomach, still holding some strength left over from his army days, the beads catching in a fine trail of dark hair, leading to, in sherlock's mind at least, and exquisite erection. It was the only part of John he had never seen, but it made him want to fall to his knees, mindless that he was fully clothed, getting drenched as he took that hard aching length, slowly inch by inch, into his mouth, water catching on his eyelashes as he looked up at John's aroused, flushed face, his fingers tangling in Sherlock’s sodden curls as he urged him to suck harder, faster, deeper.

Sherlock practically growled as he slammed the decidedly crumpled newspaper down. He resumed his clenched fists, minus said newspaper, and strode into the living room, mindless of the upturned chair he had left behind. He paced the length of the room, turning sharply on bare feet, hands tensing and flexing as his teeth ground down, sending dangerous shivers down his spine.

This was irrational, illogical, these god awful feelings! They only served to dull his other senses, to cloud his judgement; grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in a high powered lens.

 Yet feelings they were, and they were not uncommon to Sherlock Holmes. He liked to think of himself as a superior being, above such trivial things, but he wasn’t, and he occasionally had to succumb to his baser… urges. He rolled the word around in his mind like a particularly rancid piece of meat on his tongue.  His addictions had quietened his feelings for decades, until Lestrade had come along and felt it necessary to save his life. Since then certain people had been keeping an uncomfortably close eye on him, and most recently the task had fallen to One John Watson. So naturally without his stimulants, that removed his commonplace emotions and took him to a higher state of reasoning, he was forced to deal with them.

He usually did it quickly and efficiently, using firm long strokes, with little deviation from his technique. It would be over as quick as he could make it, collect the offending evidence, dispose of it, and then go about his day. This more often than not leaves him sated for weeks, even months at a time.

But this was different. His urges came more frequently, and with startling intensity. John only had to smile at him when he had solved a case, or place a warning hand on his arm when John thought he was being rude, and something would flare up inside him. He had tried to get rid of the suffocating longing, but it usually just ended up with him hunched over in his bedroom, a fist stuffed in his mouth while his other worked frantically over his cock, Images and fantasies of John flashing unbidden through his mind.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock whipped his head around, and his strides faltered in the middle of the room.

“Are you ok?”

“Don’t be _thick,_ John, of course I am not ok. Why would you ask such an inane question when you can clearly _see_ I am not”

John rolled his eyes, and turned through into the kitchen. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his back. He wanted to push John into an argument, wanted to rile him up, so he could at least shout out some of his emotions. He liked to see John ruffled,  flushed cheeks and intense eyes, it made the connections in Sherlocks brain, this is how Johyn would look.... in the moment. But it happened so rarely. John was so unshakable, and so used to Sherlock, that no matter how vicious he was, John would simply throw him an amused smile or an eye roll, and carry on with what he was doing.

Sherlock curled his lip in derision. Sometimes he really hated himself, he couldn’t even start a simple argument. For god’s sake, what kind of genius was he?

“Tea, Sherlock?”

He chose to ignore John, instead moving swiftly out of the living room and thundering down the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

He reached the front door, and grasped the door handle almost violently

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice came from the top of the stairs, and he was using that tone that broached no arguments. And science be damned if that voice didn’t send a jolt of pure _want_ through him. He turned back from the door slowly, eyebrow raised to show John that this was highly inconvenient and he _clearly busy._

“You can’t go outside, Sherlock” John started padding down the stairs towards him.

Sherlock snorted “Of course I can, I can do whatever I damn well please”

John walked heavily down the last few steps, and came to a stop far too close to Sherlock for his personal comfort.  He plucked one of the ties on Sherlock s dressing gown from next to his waist, the heat of his fingers searing through the thin layers, and held it up, the end swinging close to Sherlock’s nose.

Ah.

John raised his eyebrow, a pale imitation of Sherlock’s expression

“Well, yes… Ah”

“Were you going to get changed before you went outside? Or had you simply forgotten?”

“Do not be absurd John, _of course_ I was going to get changed!” He blustered "It was simply an irrelevant piece of information up until this point in time"

Sherlock gave an internally smug grin. There, that showed John how much of a genius he was, and not the perpetual 12-year-old John believed him to be.

He brushed past John, trying to contain the delightful shudder, and headed purposefully up the stairs. He heard a soft chuckle behind him, but refused to even acknowledge it. He slammed his bedroom door shut with his foot, and re-emerged much later looking much more reasonable. He hoped the tell-tale flush across his cheeks was much less noticeable by now.

He breathed deeply, trying to rise above his tumultuous thoughts of John, pushing them back into the orderd chaos of his mind, and stepped out of his room and down to the door once again.

Now he was thinking more clearly, he did have a leads on a few cases to check up on, men’s shoes to collect and cigarettes to burn, facts and figures and data to peruse, that was where his true heart lay. That was what would save him from this obsession, this betrayal of his body that could not be returned.

“Sherlock, your keys” John was at the top of the stairs again, and didn’t give him a chance to turn around before he launched them towards him. They hit the front door with a resounding thud, and slithered to the ground. Sherlock let out an irritated sigh and bent over to pick them up.

He heard the tiniest of noises, barely detectable, a small strangled groan from behind him. As he stood up, he looked over his shoulder, and saw that John was looking rather uncomfortable. Well _this_ was new, John was so steadfast, so assured in himself, that he was never uncomfortable. Embarrassed, yes, nervous, occasionally but not this. Never this.

Sherlock turned around fully and mapped john’s body with his eyes. The gaze that could not settle on one single part of Sherlock’s form, the flushed skin of his cheeks, the heavy swallowing, the restless hands clenching an flexing near his thigh,  the compulsive rhythm being tapped out by his left foot.

His mind once again screeched to a halt, then slammed back into double speed. How, what, when? Sherlock felt betrayed by his mind and ashamed to call himself a genius. How had he not noticed any of this before? When did John start to feel this way?  John was ruining him, ripping him apart at the seams. His mind was fraying, vision blurry and his lungs felt on fire. 

How did John do this to him?

But wait; his urges, his feelings, his obsession was clearly returned, at least to a point, one that Sherlock was dissapointed to note he did not know, even if he had made his discovery mere moments ago.

No time had passed and John remained in his strange state. Sherlock gave John a smile, which he barely restrained from turning predatory before he headed out.

The game was on.


	2. Kittens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A WHOLE YEAR! that's how long it has taken me to finish this chapter. I don't what f**k is wrong with me, but i will just say that i suck and be done with it.
> 
> Hopefully you'll enjoy the chapter though (and i promise it won't be a whole year before the final chapter is up)

 

Sherlock paced around the crime scene, eyes shrewd as they darted back and forth.

“Idiots! Why are you all such idiots?!”

Lestrade frowned and pursed his lips. Donovan muttered one of her asinine remarks, which Sherlock easily ignored. Anderson made a face so stupid, that he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry in despair.

John levelled a stare at him that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. Sherlock felt warm at the attention, and was completely justified in throwing a haughty smirk at the pencil pushers from Scotland Yard.

“Can you not see?!”

Sherlock crouched beside the body, flicking his great overcoat aside, so it did not trail in the congealing blood. He touched a gloved finger to the dead man’s face.

“These scratch marks, made by a small cat, or a kitten, not the marks of a woman’s nails. They are too deep, too close together. Not to mention the slight hairs in the blood.”

He whirled round, rising to dramatic effect, forcing Lestrade and his imbeciles to scramble backwards. His eyes flicked over to John, who, as usual, looked on in awe. Sherlock mentally preened, and lifted his nose higher in the air.

“The destroyed furniture, the blood pattern across the wall!” He ejaculated, punctuating each statement with a wild hand. “You are all useless! This was not the work of a lovers tiff! There is no woman scorned!” His voice rose as he raced closer to his final conclusion.

Sherlock scanned the bedroom rapidly, then raced out, following the snags in the carpet made by tiny claws. He returned, holding a mewling bundle of fluff between thumb and finger.  He barked out a laugh at the sight of them all still frozen, looks ranging from bewilderment (Anderson) to wonder (John). He dropped the kitten in Lestrade’s hands, who barely managed to catch it.

“Lestrade, here is your killer”

With that he strode out, coat billowing like some dark avenging angel. He heard John‘s clipped footsteps follow, and smiled to himself. Let John see how clever he was, and he may just succumb to Sherlock whims that bit easier.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade thundered down the stairs

“Boring!” Sherlock retaliated, sweeping out of the front door, past shocked looking officers.

“Sherlock” John placed a restraining hand on his arm, forcing him to stop and turn around. John looked up at him, his eyes turned soft and beseeching, the blue bright against his pale eyelashes. It made Sherlock want to gather John in his arms and just breathe him in. How damned confusing.  He shook himself slightly to dislodge the tender feelings.

“John” Sherlock tried to hide the petulant whine from his voice. “Even these imbeciles can figure out the rest of this case”

John rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment further, and Sherlock knew he’d won. This time.

As he turned to leave, Lestrade caught them up, keeping his breath even to try to hide the fact that he’d run down the stairs and was woefully unfit. Fool. Lestrade held up a hand before he could start speaking, so Sherlock simply raised an inquiring eyebrow. Not that he couldn’t tell exactly what he was going to say, and was vehemently against it, but he was interested in John’s reaction.

“No sherlock, I don’t need you to explain the crime scene. I doubt you would be willing to anyway” John snorted in amusement. Lestrade dismissed Sherlock entirely, looking instead at John. “Please, I have to get this case cleaned up, file reports, talk to the man’s family. I need you to take the cat.”

John didn’t show any outward reaction, like he’d been expecting the question. Sherlock lips quirked into a tiny smile, proud. Good, he’d been playing close attention, exactly as Sherlock liked it.

John exhaled a long breath, and with only a slight flicker of his eyelids, he nodded.

That was not what he was expecting. My my, John Watson _was_ full of surprises. This however, was not a surprise he particularly liked.

“John! We are not taking that bloody animal home! It will get into my experiments! It will leave hair _everywhere!_ JOHN! You cannot be serious! John put it down! John do not walk away from me!”

Sherlock glared hard at the collective amusement of the officers. He would crash the servers at the met when he got home, see how they liked it. Just as soon as he had got rid of that feline.

 

* * *

 

 

He thumped up the stairs into the flat whipping his scarf and coat off,  his hair settling into a riot of curls

“John” he turned speech ready and scowl fixed in place. He would not have that damned creature in his life. No matter how adorably John pleaded.

“Oh” Sherlock gave a quiet exhale.

All the fight rushed out of him at the scene in the living room.  John was kneeling on the carpet, jumper removed, thrown carelessly across the sofa and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying his strong, tanned forearms. His head bowed forward, gaze warm as he watched the kitten chase the piece of string across the carpet, held delicately between John’s fingers.

John tensed the moment Sherlock folded himself down onto the carpet, as if the movement had shattered Johns illusion that he was alone. It must have, for he was not as perceptive as Sherlock.  A delicious flush crept up the back of his neck, and john looked at Sherlock shyly, guilty and unsure at being caught so vulnerable. It made Sherlock’s eyes widen fractionally, the surprise in his own expression at odds with how much he liked seeing John like this; unshakeable John, always straight-laced, constantly keeping Sherlock on the right side of normal. It made his, shall we say, more unsavoury side flare, and he barely kept his features from turning predatory.

“Can we keep him?” John kept his look open and vulnerable, as if he knew how much it affected Sherlock.

Sherlock growled quietly, and Johns blush deepened, set off beautifully by the dilating of his pupils, Sherlock was pleased to notice.

Time to press his advantage.

Sherlock rose with liquid grace and walked easily into the kitchen, throwing a “don’t be an idiot John, of course we can’t” over his shoulder.

Of course, that got the intended reaction of John rising to follow him into the kitchen. 

John stood hesitantly in the doorway, eyes darting over Sherlock, as if trying to work out what to say to get Sherlock to concede that they could keep the cat. He took a step forward and then faltered, ducking his head and bringing his hands together to nervously play with the skin around his nails.

This side of John unnerved and enthralled Sherlock in equal measure, and for the second time that day, he couldn't tell what John was going to do. Unpredictability irritated him, but it this case, he was almost shocked by the anticipation quivering through him. Would John give in easily, or would he try to protest? Would he melt into him, that vulnerability on show for Sherlock to take? Or would he want to take charge, using his ingrained soldiers authority to play Sherlock so sweetly? A dozen other thoughts flashed thorough his mind, each one twisting and turning to reach different conclusions, all ending in difficulties, messy brake ups and distance between them.

Sherlock tried to shy away from these thoughts. He had seen the evidence for himself, catalogued all of Johns reactions to him, analysed their relationship over the past few weeks, since the initial incident. Logic and reason all pointed towards John appreciating and even returning Sherlock, ahem, affections. John had dealt with Sherlock for so long, shared his space and life, and still he wanted him. This would not end in pain, would it?

That was what frustrated Sherlock so. John could not be read like data from his experiments, he could not predict an outcome, or track its inevitable course over time. He knew being with someone didn't work like that and John couldn't be manipulated or tweaked like when he grew fungi over animal carcasses.

Sherlock wanted to tear his hair in frustration.

“Sherlock?” John looked up at him through his eyelashes, blush returning in full force.

Sherlock snapped his gaze to lock with Johns, silencing all those conflicting thoughts. No, he couldn’t predict John, but his increasing urges said that he could _have_ him, damn the consequences, and for once he would let his heart rule his head.

The decision made, with doubts and fears pushed aside, without all those thoughts crushing him, his focused narrowed to a single entity; John. Heat flared inside him at John’s cowed stance, his earlier want rising to the surface once again. Now they were alone, without the imbeciles that deign to call themselves the law, Sherlock allowed his control to relax. There was no one here to Judge him but John, and John wanted him.

Sherlock crossed the kitchen, coming to a stop barely inches from John, forcing him to crane his head back, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as Sherlock loomed over him.

“John?” Sherlock dropped his voice to sensual rumble.

“ah… er”  Sherlock smirked at John’s reaction, itching to make him bloom under Sherlock’s careful ministrations

Sherlock rested his hands on the doorframe above Johns head, and dipped down to rest his lips close to his ear, his warm breath washing over the shell and making John shudder.

He took a pause, and let his senses take note of John. His brain may have taken a back seat, but it was never fully silent.

Heat emanating from John’s skin, the colour rosy and warm, spread up through his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Breathing quick and harsh, almost panting, but kept quiet, as if John feared discovery. His body tense, seeming poised for fight or flight, combined with his breathing made him seem unsure, as if he didn’t know what Sherlock was doing. But his smell was strong, the adrenaline in holding himself triggering reactions in his hormones, causing him to practically ooze pheromones. Smell, sound, and sight all screamed want. John was positively edible.

“John… you know you cannot keep that animal in our home, it’s illogical” Sherlock purred directly into John’s ear.  John shivered, turning his head fractionally towards Sherlock.

Sherlock preened inwardly, as he brought his hand to cup the back of John’s neck. This is what he loved, the thrill, the chase. He had John, and the game was almost won.

His finger touched John’s neck, the skin warm below his hairline. Sherlock’s eyes flickered closed as John kept turning, theirs noses brushing, and the heat inside Sherlock burned brighter.

And then nothing.

 Sherlock opened his eyes to see John in the other room, scowling. Would John ever stop surprising him? He growled softly before stalking across to John, nostrils flaring. John pressed a firm hand to Sherlock’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Sherlock” John’s tone was serious, annoyance simmering on anger lacing the words “You can’t…. you can’t just manipulate me like that! I won’t just go along with what you say, just because you, you act like that!” John pulled back, turning to leave.  His voice came out a whisper “I’ve never had cause to think that you, you were like what everyone else told me. You’ve never been like that with me; to me you’ve always been just _Sherlock._ But now you’re being cruel”

Sherlock stumbled back as if he had been punched. He had been observing and watching John all this time, but he hadn’t really _seen._ John wanted him, that much was obvious, but he was scared.

But that was ridiculous; it was obvious to anyone who looked how much Sherlock wanted John, in any way that he could get. Apparently John was just as bad as Sherlock. He may now know how to observe, at least better than the Andersons of the world, but he did not see either. Sherlock would have to make him.

Sherlock reached out to grasp John, to pull him back, to show him to explain.

Too late.

John was stumbling out of the door and down the stairs in his haste to leave.

“John!” Shouted down the stairs, only to be answered by the ringing slam of the front door.


End file.
